The Rules
by Nina28
Summary: He wished – He shook his head, because beggars (and lovers, soldiers, ghosts) couldn't be choosers.


He didn't want the lights on when it happened. That was the rule. Even the first time had had darkness surrounding them; it had been just hands and mouths and skin and clothes rustling and falling to the floor. Heat and John's lips and tongue trailing on his skin, hot and almost punishing. He knew the sounds John made in the dark, the way his fingers dug deep into his skin; he knew the moans and pants broken against his lips. And Sherlock Holmes was a greedy bastard, because he drank them all, he wanted more.

Sherlock tried to imagine, to deduce how John would look like if things didn't happen in the dark, with the lights on, or while bathed by sunlight. He wished – He shook his head, because beggars (and lovers, soldiers, ghosts) couldn't be choosers.

There weren't roles – when it happened. They had rules, borne out of necessity, but rules were dull and boring and they did not matter (or so he said, so he repeated to himself, but he followed them nonetheless for John's sake.).

What mattered, what really mattered was the need to feel each other, skin to skin, when they fumbled in the dark and were each other's lifelines. John scratched his back when he came – and Sherlock liked to look at those marks, after. He liked to see the crimson trails, stark against his pale skin, because it meant it had really happened. It meant that it wasn't a dream, a hallucination caused by sleep deprivation or loneliness.

Sherlock had semen on his stomach (his or John's? He honestly didn't care) and angry scratch marks on his biceps.

Sherlock smiled sometimes in similar situations – other times, though, he hated his own skin; he hated the man he saw in the mirror, he hated the light – because there was no John in it. Not _that_ John, the John that was his and his alone, there weren't bruising kisses and soft smiles – it was just him in a too silent flat.

He found a button of one of John's shirts on the floor of his bedroom once, it had been probably ripped in the dark, as they kissed, licked, sucked and loved each other. He still kept that button in a drawer of his desk and he had got very good at pretending it wasn't even there. Logic would dictate that it was stupid and useless sentiment, that he ought to get rid of that small memento. But then he remembered that logic had ceased to be a valid argument the night he had shot Charles Augustus Magnussen in the head, in front of witnesses for John, so his gaze lingered on that small button before he closed the drawer.

Contrary to popular belief (Mycroft, Mummy, Irene Adler and John Watson to name a few), he was not a virgin. He hadn't been a virgin the first time he had taken John to his bed (technically it had been the floor of the sitting room).

Furthermore, he was aware of the difference between having sex and making love. He had experienced both – got his heart ripped apart by the latter experience once and did the only reasonable thing he could do under the circumstances: he abstained. He was not blind. He recognized the looks of lust directed at him when he saw them – but for some reason it had taken him considerably longer to understand that Irene Adler had fallen in love with him.

With John? He didn't know. John had spent hours, _hours_ once, exploring his body, worshipping every inch of it, loosening him up with his fingers, as if they had all the time in the world, he had kissed his lips as if he was a miracle, the best thing that had ever happened to him – and it had been better than the best high he had experienced while he did cocaine: it had been pure unadulterated bliss, happiness, peace. He had genuinely believed he had made love before – obviously he had lacked data to make an accurate analysis.

And then – And then there was the darkness, with just the sounds of skin slapping against skin, and short, brutal kisses, the feeling of hips pumping and John pinning his wrists above his head – and he kept his eyes closed, without looking at him once, and Sherlock arched and panted and gave John everything he wanted – because if John Watson wanted him to be just a warm body he could do that.

He had died, killed and been sent to die for John Watson, allowing him to _fuck_ him (or being the one who fucked John) was a very small price to pay.

John never stayed after – and Sherlock had got very good at pretending it didn't matter.

Most of the times anyway.

"Your wallet is on the floor." Sherlock said.

It went against the rules, the unwritten, unspoken rules they had set up. But John was getting dressed and he would forget his wallet if he didn't say anything. Sherlock was naked on the bed.

He had semen on his body (John could be territorial, he liked to mark him sometimes in different, creative ways and Sherlock couldn't say he didn't appreciate it), a bullet scar on his chest and a hole in his heart. It was just another Wednesday. Another day. John wasn't moving – he had stopped getting dressed and Sherlock could hear him swallow compulsively.

John's shoulders heaved and Sherlock could make out that they were trembling. _Right._ John only allowed himself to cry in the dark, much like he only wrapped his lips around his cock and let him fuck his mouth in the dark or hold him by his hips as he moved inside of him. Sherlock poked at the idea at the back of his mind that John only did shameful things in the dark and let it go.

 _Here be dragons_ , suddenly became more than an old way of warning people of dangers. John let out a sob, hiding it against his hands .

"John – " Sherlock trailed.

"Shut. Up." John hissed.

 _I'm sorry,_ was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue, but in the end he didn't say anything. He got up from the bed ignoring the fluids trailing down his body, managing not to bump into John even if he kept feeling his stare on him.

 _Get out._

 _Come back to bed._

 _Let me see you._

 _I love you._

 _Do you love me?_

He said nothing. Of course he didn't, it went against the _rules._ John Watson cried in the dark, Sherlock Holmes didn't cry – or if he did it was hard to tell the difference under the shower. He didn't see John for weeks after that night. He solved crimes, ate take away food, ignored his brother and almost fucked a client – only because he could.

After all John went home to his wife, shared a bed with her, so he foolishly thought that someone else's skin, breath and lips on his would cancel John's. He didn't because he realized it wouldn't have. He really should have known better.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Thirty. John wouldn't be surprised if he knew that Sherlock had timed how long John and he could look at each other before one of them (John, usually) realized that best friends were not supposed to stare at each other for so long and so longingly. But that only happened in the light. It was different in the dark.

"What do you want?" John asked, in the dark, his voice hoarse with desire, his fingers tightly wrapped around his penis.

 _You. Forever._

Instead he said, "I almost had sex with Stephen York last week." His voice was remarkably steady and even, considering the way John had just flicked his wrist.

He couldn't see John (of course – that was the bloody point of the rule, wasn't it?), nevertheless he could feel him looking at him, his jealousy coming to him in waves. He didn't smile.

He had wanted to smile when John had been jealous of Janine, but that was different.

Things were different now.

"Oh, you did, didn't you?" John asked in a casual tone.

As if they had been discussing the weather. Yet the hitch in John's breath made Sherlock's skin tingle with anticipation: it was territorial, wicked, dangerous.

"And why didn't you?" John asked, drawling his words, and Sherlock felt him shifting on the bed (his own, it was more comfortable than John's old bed and definitely better than any of the furniture in the sitting room, not that it had stopped them before).

He had to dig his fingers in the sheets not to moan when John's fingers were not around his penis any more, and he only allowed himself a shaky breath when John sat astride him. He did not jerk his hips up, seeking friction. He did not move. _That_ was a game he was very good at playing. He shivered, though, feeling the weight of John's stare on him.

"Why. Did. You. Not. Fuck. Him?" John asked.

He gently cradled his face in both his hands and Sherlock opened his mouth when he felt John's index and middle fingers tracing the seams of his lips. He sucked on the fingers, smirking against John's skin when the man moaned.

 _Because I am addicted to your skin._

 _Because he is hard in the places you're soft – and soft in those you are hard._

 _Because his voice is wrong._

 _Because he doesn't have a bullet scar that almost matches mine._

 _Because it's not you._

 _Because I am in love with you and I'm yours – and you are in love with me, and you are mine._

He didn't reply to John, but somehow he suspected John would know the answer he would have given him.

There was a particular picture taken on John's wedding day that no one had see except for John and later Sherlock. Greg had taken the picture with his mobile phone, in the Church, right before Mary arrived. John kept the picture in his mobile phone and so did Sherlock. It went against the rules, but neither of them cared.

They were looking at each other in that picture, a smile tugging at their lips because of something one of the guests had said. Sherlock never looked at that picture – he had an eidetic memory after all – and besides, he recalled exceptionally well that moment: it had happened right before Mary had entered the church, John had smiled and Sherlock had – breathed, surprised by how such a simple, boring task could be that difficult.

He had smiled and he had thought that he truly was the best actor in the world. He had locked gazes with John and he had wished he had never come back to London. Not to that.

It wasn't supposed to hurt like that. Nothing was supposed to hurt like that.

John? John looked at that picture every day. It gave him purpose. It made him hate himself. It made him fall in love with Sherlock all over again. Every day. None of them spoke about the picture, not during the day, not in the dark.

They had both thanked Greg though.

John Watson was _exceptional._ John's wrath was a sight to behold. Sherlock felt lightheaded and couldn't stop smiling. John Watson fought dirty when he had to: military training, knowledge of human anatomy, street smart and instinct all wrapped up in a beige jumper, faded jeans, boots and a black jacket. John was smiling as well, and he was alive and glorious. It wasn't the fact that John had saved his life; it wasn't even the fact that those morons hadn't seen him coming, had underestimated him.

No, it was how the air became electric around him, brimming with energy; it was how John looked younger, but powerful and lethal like time itself.

"Turn off the lights." Sherlock said before John did.

They were in Baker Street's sitting room; days of research evident in the books, files and pictures that littered every surface.

"Turn off the lights." He repeated. Did he sound bossy? Needy? Desperate? Turned on beyond belief? He didn't care.

He would not beg John. First of all because he had never begged anyone in his life, and secondly because that was another rule: no meant no. No could also mean a lot of things with them. Words and promises and oaths and silences that could only be filled in the dark.

 _John,_ his John was thorough. That was his rule after all. He turned off all the lights in the flat, one by one and Sherlock didn't move, his hands were balled in fists in the pockets of his coat, his heart was hammering in his chest. Yes, to no one's surprise but his own he did have a heart. Moriarty was right.

He had a heart and in that moment he was listening to his heart shortening the distance between them, cursing under his breath when he bumped into something and then he was there, expertly helping him out of his coat, scarf and gloves, and then his hands were on his waist, pulling him at him.

John smelled like gunpowder and soap, like tea and hospital soap. Darkness all around them – even the curtains had been drawn – he could not see John (and one day, when he stopped fearing the answer he might give him, he would ask John about that particular rule.), but he could feel him. He felt warm, calloused hands on his torso, the man's erection pressing against his hip, the taste of his mouth, the soft texture of his hair when he dug his fingers in it to deepen the kiss.

It was fast, messy; neither of them completely undressed, but Sherlock closed his eyes, arching his spine and muffled a moan against John's skin when he felt the man biting down on his shoulder. (how wrong it was that he hoped that he'd broken the skin? That when he looked in the mirror he would see another John shaped mark on his skin to remind him that it was real? That it was happening?)

 _Stay. Don't go away. I need you._ He had to clamp his mouth shut not to ask him. Because that went against the rules. He closed his eyes, later, on the couch, still not talking, pretending not to hear him when John left – and didn't open them for a long time, after.

"What the fuck are you doing up here?" John asked.

No. he didn't ask. He shouted.

Good question. St. Bart's rooftop. He hated that place, possibly even more than John did. It was irrational to harbor such feelings for a building, but his rationality had taken a turn for the worse lately.

He shrugged his shoulders, still giving his back at John. And right on cue it began to rain. It was cold, he knew he was supposed to get up and go back to be Sherlock Holmes, but truth was? Sometimes he was sure the real Sherlock Holmes had died the minute Moriarty had blown his head off in order to win a stupid game.

"It's raining –" John said. Was he afraid? Sherlock turned to look at the man, the biting retort he had in mind died on his lips. John was shaking, and Sherlock wanted to be cynical (pragmatist) and think that it was because of the rain, but he knew better. John took another cautious step toward him and said, "I used to come here often."

Thunders, lightening, a black moonless and starless sky. They weren't in the dark, but it was close enough.

"You did?" He asked. His voice was low, he could feel rain droplets trailing down his face.

"Yep. I came here and just – looked down." John said. He moved another step and Sherlock felt him, next to him; he felt that current, that energy – even there, on that rooftop.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

It wasn't dark, not really. He could ask questions, he could hear the words.

"On the good days, I thought that I had managed to come up there and stop you. On the bad days, I looked down and wondered if you had been scared – how much it had hurt. On the very bad days, I wanted to follow you." John said in a low voice.

He felt short of breath, he could taste his own heartbeat in his throat. He shifted slightly, and took John's hand in his for a moment and squeezed. It went against the rules. But just that once they didn't care.

"I'm sorry." He said.

And he meant it, more than he had in the past. John squeezed his hand back, Sherlock didn't look at him, and he knew that the man wasn't looking at him. It was like being in the dark, it was – breaking their hearts.

"I know. I forgave you a long time ago." John said – a breath and then added in a low voice, "Did you forgive me?"

"There was nothing to forgive." Sherlock said.

He loved the feeling of John's hand in his, he loved that if he turned and looked at him he could see him, look at his face, see the many emotions in his eyes. "Oh yes, there was. There is." John said. A squeeze at his hand and then he was gone.

"Please don't be there long." _I love you_

"All right." _I love you too_.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't even know why he had gone up on that rooftop. John though – John had followed him up there that time.

He couldn't let go. His legs were still wrapped around John's waist, he could feel John's soft pants against his neck; he loved those brief seconds after they had both reached their climax. He loved how both their bodies were slick with sweat, how he could smell them in the room, on the sheets.

He could feel John's heart, his fingertips were on his wrist, and he was counting his heartbeats. He should move. He really should. He should let the ritual begin: John slipping out of his arms, handing him the flannel that was on the side of the bed (John's side, even if it wasn't officially his), and then slowly get dressed and leave.

All of it in the dark, all of it without saying a word. He dug his fingers in John's back (that too went against the rules), he didn't move. He didn't say a word. And neither did John. He didn't close his eyes, it was so dark around them that it would be useless; he touched John's skin, the scars from war, the ones he had got in London with him. He had learnt John's body, his skin by touch – and he lingered in every touch, as if he could stop time or make things different.

"Sherlock." John whispered against his skin.

There was some sort of beautiful symmetry in the way John's body and his fit together; his long limbs enveloping John, keeping him there; John's lips against his neck, his fingers in his hair, scratches and bruises and bodily fluids – it was perfection…and John could not leave. Not that night.

"I love you." Sherlock said.

It went against the rules. And it wasn't even what he wanted to say, but the words were out, they hovered in the room, in the darkness of his bedroom, loud and true, so very true. John stiffened, and Sherlock felt the tickling sensation of the man's lashes flutter closed and caress his skin. They were close, too close (not close enough).

"Don't…" John whispered, his voice was hoarse and if having a heart meant that – feeling like it was splintering in his chest, then he longed for the days when he was sure he didn't have one.

"I should go, it's getting late." John said in a low voice.

Yet he didn't move, only his fingers did, his fingertips were ghosting over the skin of his forearms and Sherlock didn't relent his hold on him. He knew he would have to let him go, though. Because it was one of the rules, the most important one, because it was the one rule that kept him safe. And John's safety was the only thing that mattered. It was the reason for the rules, all of them except one.

"Yes. You should." He whispered eventually.

"Your heart is beating so fast." John said after a moment of silence.

They were still in each other's arms, he could smell them in the room, he felt the heat of John's skin and it was like the most perfect note ever created. It broke his heart, it made him smile. It was driving him crazy.

"Is it?" He asked, lacing his voice with boredom.

Rules. There were rules. There was a reason for them and he had already broken one. John chuckled, reading right through him. Why could he do that so easily now? Sherlock tightened his hold on John for a moment, allowing himself a moment of pure selfishness. He kissed John the way he knew the man loved to be kissed: hot, messy, deep, tongues dancing , hips grinding against each other's. John broke the kiss – Sherlock was reasonably sure about that or, perhaps, they moved together.

John moved silently around the room, used to the darkness, to the space where they could be together, in secret, while the world outside rushed, bright and loud.

The rules were simple, really. They existed for a reason: they were a compromise, some sort of glue to keep other things together. They had decided them together. They had never sat together and decided what to do, how to act, what to say and what not to say; even before it started, talking about things had been difficult for them.

John had told him once that talking was difficult for him – he had had to think he was nearly dying to open up and even then he hadn't told everything. Talking was difficult, but Sherlock read the man's words in the trails that John's fingers and lips left on his body, in the way he held him. He had always appreciated structure, he didn't much care about rules, but things were different in that case, therefore he made exceptions. For John.

He broke the rules, from time to time – because letting John go, letting him leave their flat, letting him go back to his life (the other one, the one he had chosen first, even if it now was a lie, surrounded by lies and deceits – the intrinsic irony never ceased to impress Sherlock) was becoming harder and harder.

Of all the rules, there was only one John had voiced aloud, the first time they had made love (he was reasonably sure that it had been more than sex that first time, even if it had been consumed on the floor of their sitting room..).

"Turn off the lights. All the lights." John had said.

And he had obliged, because – because sentiment was endemic, and once Sherlock had finally deduced that not only did he have feelings for John Watson, but they took up all the space inside of him, all the empty places, all the corners and gaps of his mind palace – he had simply accepted that he could not deny him anything. So he didn't.

The rules were borne out of experience: it was a given that no one could know about them, not even Mrs. Hudson (Mycroft knew, but Mycroft didn't count.). They didn't have dates, fixed encounters. It was too dangerous. There never could be any written text, any phone call or e-mail that hinted at their relationship.

There were other rules as well, of course: they could only have morsels of time, they only could meet at night, it was better not to talk. He had found out, to his own dismay, that sometimes he longed to have what normal people called, "pillow talk".

Of course he had no idea what that even meant, but he longed to have John in his bed and talk about inane, normal, dull things. Only John Watson could make him long for dull things and make them seem beautiful.

They could never, ever say "I love you" aloud, but he had broken that rule – he of all people. Of all the rules he wished to break, there was only one he was afraid to: asking John not to turn off the lights. He wanted to see John. He wanted to ask him why he wanted the lights off. He wanted John with him – not just morsels of time, scraps of attention, stolen moments from Mary and all the lies and plans and strategies they were employing.

The first time John had kissed him he had been in a hospital bed, hooked to machines, an IV pump of morphine gloriously taking away all the pain, even the things that hurt so deeply and so intimately that he had chosen the label of high functioning sociopath rather than to deal with them.

It started with six words: "I did not choose her, Sherlock."

John had known he wasn't really sleeping. He had known he could hear him.

"You asked me to do it your way and I will, but don't think for _one_ moment that I chose her over you. I chose her because – you were dead, and you are not supposed to grieve for a friend like I did. Like I was your _widow._ And she made me laugh, and talking to a headstone or into a glass filled with whiskey was – I was becoming my mother or my sister. I did not choose her, Sherlock and – you are awake, aren't you?"

Sherlock had nodded his head, slowly opening his eyes and John had a look in his eyes he hadn't seen for far too long: fond exasperation, happiness (because he was alive), and that complicated rub of _love-want-need-hero worship-lust_. He hadn't realized how glossing over something that was always there was easier than miss it like one could miss a limb, or a sense.

"I had to – you must know I didn't mean…" Sherlock had said, sounding hoarse and feeling raw, despite the morphine.

John had nodded, Sherlock had done the same, satisfied. He had fallen asleep, when he had next woken up John had been there and Sherlock had said, "If my mouth didn't taste horrible I could kiss you."

Morphine had a peculiar effect on him, apparently. John had grinned, he remembered that moment with crystal clear clarity. He had said, "I'm addicted to dangerous situations, or so I have been told."

And John Watson had kissed him, right then, bad breath and hospital monitors notwithstanding and it had been glorious; it had been – the first real thing he had felt for months, years probably. John hadn't left his side at the hospital, it had been there that the plan about Mary had started to be shaped out and so had the rules.

They were running out of time, they both knew that. They had plans and back up plans, thrice checked by Mycroft and his people for every eventuality. They had bought time, and its emotional cost was taking its toll on them. Lately, every time they met on crime scenes they danced around some sort of invisible line to avoid touching each other or staring at each other.

Sherlock's patience was growing thin, he snapped at people, he was willingly cruel to them – because he was hurting and he was not a good person. John was sad, stressed, there were lines around his eyes and mouth, grey in his hair, a baby daughter and a mass murder wife. John didn't smile – John was going to pieces and Sherlock was not far behind.

The alley was not specifically dark, but John didn't care when he dragged Sherlock in it. The crime scene was literally behind the corner, Lestrade, Donovan (unlike John he didn't hate Sally, he didn't hold a grudge against her, after all he had manipulated her just like Jim Moriarty did. He had known she would fall for Moriarty's trick, just like she would believe in his pantomime. But John – John couldn't forgive her, and he honestly didn't care enough about the woman to plead her case).

"You are acting like a bastard, would you bloody stop it?" John hissed, almost pushing him against a wall.

"I am a bastard, John – and don't you _dare_ doing that again!" Sherlock replied calmly, icily.

"Doing what? Dragging you away before Lestrade kicks you out of the scene?" John said. He was grabbing the lapels of his coat, they were close. Too close.

"Step. Back." Sherlock said.

He could feel the anger, it was scratching his insides, it was a vice wrapping itself around his lungs making it hard to breath, to keep still and not grab John and shove, shove and shove or pull John at him and crush their lips together.

"No. I'm not stepping back. I know this is hard, Sherlock – believe me, I know." John said.

"Don't you ever _presume_ to know what I think, John. Or what I _feel."_ Sherlock said and a lifetime of self imposed discipline (repression, some might argue) was crumbling down and if John believed he had been a bastard before, he would be shocked to know what he was really capable of, he would not want to hear what it was fighting to come out of his mouth.

"Sherlock, love…" John trailed.

"Don't!" Sherlock hissed, "Don't call me that!"

Despite his better judgment he didn't step back when John crowded his space, he allowed John to get closer (and sometimes it was just too much, sometimes he didn't know whether he wanted to be swallowed by John, let him inside so deeply that there wouldn't be any gap between them any more or whether he wanted to go back to before, when things didn't hurt, weren't difficult, when the silence and the darkness of his flat was bearable.) and John touched him.

And it was dangerous, it went against all the rules, Sherlock felt his back hitting the wall behind him as John grabbed his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. John kissed him like that sometimes, all tongue, teeth and hunger and desperation. John kissed him as if he owned him (he did.), as if he belonged to Sherlock, entirely, and Sherlock wanted to give in, he wanted – so much that it was destroying him, destroying them both. He broke the kiss and his hand sneaked up to John's neck to keep him still.

He could look at him, really look at him, in the half darkness of the alley. "Your words would bear more weight if you could look at me. I could perhaps believe you if two nights ago you hadn't left while I was still on my knees!" He said against the man's lips, their foreheads touching.

He shoved him and felt happy, for a moment, when he saw the hurt crossing John's features, but it was either talk, let the venom out or implode – and he was too greedy, too selfish to be quiet.

He smirked and said, "Of course since the lights were off you might have not noticed. Or cared. Whichever you deem appropriate."

"We decided –" John started.

"Yes. I was there, I know. Some of the rules are of your own doing, though." Sherlock said.

He felt exhausted suddenly. He was sure he had not shouted, yet his throat felt raw. "Tell Lestrade it was the step sister, he needs to check her bedroom and now if you'll excuse me…" Sherlock said.

John didn't move. He looked stunned. He looked hurt. And Sherlock for once felt like himself. He didn't look back, and when he almost crashed into Sally Donovan right outside the alley he deduced right away that she must have listened to at least part of the argument with John.

Sally didn't say anything – and Sherlock thought he must be really pathetic if he could glimpse something akin to pity in the woman's eyes. He was tempted to tell her that she could sympathize having been involved with a married man, but he decided otherwise. He strode away, ignoring her.

On the way to Baker Street he turned his mobile phone off.

He got into the black car that he found in front of his house, though. For once he was glad to see his brother.

Falling in love with John Watson had surprised Sherlock. It wasn't love at first sight, it had crept up on him, it had stunned him – one moment John Watson was his flatmate, his blogger, his colleague and friend – and a moment later he was in the pool where Carl Powers had died and John was wearing a semtex vest and despite that he still told him to run, to save himself.

And Sherlock's only thought, his only deduction had been: "Run _where_ if you are not with me?"

He had lived two years without John. He had travelled all around the world, faced danger, physical pain – and it had carved a hole in him – and the hole had got bigger and bigger when he had come back, when he had seen that John had moved on, that there was a blonde woman who shared his bed, with whom he wanted to share his life.

Mary had shot him, and Sherlock had set up perhaps his masterpiece and his downfall. In order to keep John safe he had sent the man he loved back to her, to buy time, to find a solution that would keep John and his daughter safe. It was the kind of grandiose, intricate plan Mycroft was excellent at. It was one of those plans that took time and cut bits of himself away.

To be fair to Mycroft, his brother had warned him about the dangers of being involved with John (physically and romantically) for the duration of the plan. And Mycroft was always right. Those plans always contemplated collateral damage. Sometimes he feared that in that particular instance he would be the collateral damage.

He ignored all the texts and phone calls from John for two weeks.

AGRA was almost a go, if he went down, he wouldn't bring John with him.

In the end it went without a hitch. It had taken months (too many) to weave the net that would trap Mary, and make sure that she would never be a danger for John and the baby. John had been informed, he knew what his role would be, Mycroft had made sure he did. Sherlock hadn't so much as exchanged a word with him since they had talked in the alley.

He hadn't read the texts, he had asked Mycroft to inform John that texts were against the rules. Mycroft had smirked and said, "Should I pull his ponytail for you in the schoolyard too?"

"Mycroft –" Sherlock had hissed.

"Text him yourself, Sherlock!" Mycroft had retorted.

Of all the times to stop being a nosy bastard, it figured Mycroft would choose that particular occasion. He had not texted John in the end, he had not read the texts the man had sent him. He had focused on the plan, on each and every detail of it to make sure that Mary could not find any loophole. She didn't.

It felt hollow, after. It felt sterile, until Mary (he knew her real name, but to him she would always be Mary) whispered in his ear, "I have known you were sneaking around since the first time. Watching you tear each other apart was too fun!" She had looked at him with a smile, genuine amusement in her eyes and said, "Well played, Sherlock."

It stopped feeling hollow – and it started to hurt. To burn. Perhaps Moriarty had won after all: he had burnt the heart out of him.

Despite what he had assumed it would happen, he fell asleep before his head hit the pillow when he went home. He had been exhausted, wounded; he had not detoured to a crack house after, only because Mycroft's people had escorted him inside the flat and besides, he really had been too tired. Cocaine could wait for a few hours.

He slept for twelve hours. When he woke up John was there, at the foot of his bed. He was smiling. "What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked. He blinked, trying to adjust to the image of John in his bedroom, while there was sunlight in the room and the lights, all the lights in the flat were on. He sat on the bed, his back against the headboard and looked at John.

"You have lost weight." John said, ignoring his question. He crowded closer to him on the bed, he didn't touch him, but Sherlock could see that he was assessing the wounds on his face and shoulders. Sherlock gripped the sheets, letting John watch him, trying his best not to do the same, but it was impossible.

His mind didn't work like that, he didn't work like that. He deduced John (drank him in, avidly): the sleepless nights, the weight loss, the guilt, the love for his daughter (it was all encompassing, visceral, but for some reason Sherlock was _not_ jealous), the alcohol he had drunk, the regrets.

"I was working." Sherlock said, "Why are you here, John?"

"Was it your idea? The safe house – I mean," John said, "I thought it would be at the end of the month."

"Yes, and I lied. How surprising." Sherlock said.

He had made sure that John and his daughter would be safe when the plan became active. He was willing to take many risks, but risking John's life was never an option.

"May we talk?" John asked. He sounded hesitant, exhausted and sad.

"When did you last sleep?" Sherlock asked. Even if he already knew the answer.

"It doesn't matter. I need to – did you read my texts?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock replied.

John was close to him now, and it just didn't compute that he was in his bedroom, on his bed, so close that they could touch – and kiss each other and the lights were on.

John nodded his head, breaking his gaze and looked down at his clasped hands. "I hurt you."

"Yes." Sherlock said. It was the truth, there was no point in lying. He didn't want to lie.

John didn't apologise, he clenched his jaws and said, "Do you want me to leave?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How long have you been here?" he asked instead.

"A while." John replied.

Sherlock looked at him, he could feel his lips wanting to curl in a smile, but he resisted the impulse, asking instead, "Why are you here?"

"Because I hurt you. May we talk?" John asked.

"We are talking." Sherlock said.

"No, we really are not." John replied, a hint of impatience in his voice.

Sherlock huffed a breath and threw the sheet aside, getting up from the bed.

He noticed that John averted his eyes while he asked, "Where are you going?"

"Bathroom." He looked at him for a moment and said, "You can look at me, it's nothing you haven't seen before."

"I haven't, actually." John whispered. The intensity of John's stare was staggering.

Sherlock was awake now and discipline won out in the end, his voice, his body didn't betray how his insides were twisting, how he was aching for John when he said, "And whose fault is it?"

John nodded, his jaws clenched tight and he could see how his eyes were sparkling with unshed tears.

"If I have to listen to what you have to say I'll need some coffee." Sherlock said.

John got up from the bed, he was clenching his hands in fists, and part of Sherlock was enjoying the fact that he was hurting John.

"I do want to hear what you want to say." He said. Only a part of him wanted to see John hurting, smarting from his words, the other – the rest of him wanted John, all of him, in that flat, too much to care.

He needed a moment, though. He needed to find a balance between the two parts of himself, because he wasn't a good person, he was hurt, angry and he knew he could break John with his words. And he loved him too much to risk that.

"I'll be in the kitchen." John said.

"Our first proper date, how romantic." Sherlock said.

Small steps.

The coffee was good: hot, black, two sugars, just like Sherlock liked it. He drank it in silence, looking around, noticing that all the lights in the flat were on and John kept looking at him.

"My God, you are beautiful." John said. He meant every syllable, he knew that. And yet he chuckled and said, "Really, John?"

John chuckled as well, "I know, I know. I sent you those texts – and I told you everything."

Sherlock took the mobile phone from the pocket of his trousers (somehow the idea of having a conversation with John while naked had seemed a terrible idea. For too many reasons to count) and calmly twirled it in his hand.

"I heard you." He said and then threw the mobile against the wall. The sound it made when it cracked was extremely satisfying for a moment. He felt like he could breath.

"Sherlock – what the hell are you doing?" John exclaimed.

"Refusing to listen to inane rubbish. You sent me texts, congratulations! Now, if you have something to say I'll listen, otherwise, please leave!" He didn't mean it. Not really, but months of morsels of time, stolen moments, marks on his skin and long stretches of silences had exhausted his patience and his willingness to be accommodating.

"Do you remember when we decided what to do with Mary?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. It had happened shortly after their first kiss, while he still was in the hospital. It had been a long conversation, Mycroft had left shortly after outlining the plan, but they had kept talking about it for hours, and he remembered that he had told John that it would be hard, that they would have to make sacrifices. He supposed that neither of them had anticipated just how difficult it would be.

There was always something.

"I did what I had to do – but then we made love." John said.

"Yes. I remember." Sherlock said. At least he had been right about one thing: they had made love that first time.

"I – always asked you to turn off the lights because I knew that –" John took a deep breath and added, "I knew I couldn't leave you, I couldn't go back to Mary, to that farce if I – if we had looked at each other. I wouldn't have wanted to go back to her. And I had to."

Sherlock could feel his own heartbeat, the sound was loud in his ears and he had to blink his eyes, while John looked at him. "This is not an excuse. You were right that day in the alley – I treated you horribly. I thought …" John swallowed.

"What – what did you think?" Sherlock asked, "Don't misunderstand me, John: I was always a willing participant, I'm only curious to know when exactly I became a stress releaser for you. And I'm being _delicate."_

"What? Never, Sherlock! I never meant for you to feel used. I –it was hard, I had to lie, to pretend every day, every second – I felt like I could only breath, I could only be myself here. With you."

Sherlock took a sip from his mug, the coffee had got cold.

"What you said –" John said, "in the alley – that I left you while you were still on your knees. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I truly am."

Sherlock shook his head, "Don't. I owe you my apologies as well. I knew what this was doing to you and I didn't stop it. I didn't want to. You know me, John. I'm a selfish person. A terribly selfish person."

He wished he could tell John what it meant to have him leave the flat, time after time, knowing that Mary had him, even if it was a lie. He wished he could tell him that those months had been worse than when Mary had shot him. The ache had been constant, a reminder of what was just out of his grasp, and nothing had helped him to focus his attention elsewhere.

"Mary knew," Sherlock said when John didn't say anything, "she told me last night. She has known since the beginning – that we were 'sneaking around'" he used air quotes for the last words and John's eyebrows arched.

John shook his head and Sherlock noticed that some of the tension had left his shoulders when he said, "She has always known that I was in love with you."

John swallowed and Sherlock saw him blink, like he did when he wanted to blink the tears back. Sherlock let out a sigh and said, "All this sentiment is making –"

"Oh, shut up – your chin is trembling!" John said interrupting him.

He smiled and Sherlock couldn't help doing the same. He felt like the first night, after a mad rush through London, both of them chuckling; it felt exhilarating, just like it had back then. Of course John was wrong; he was not on the verge of tears, and things were still not completely good between them. John had just told him he was in love with him, though.

He wasn't sure whether John had actually told him before, he had felt like he had, sometimes, he had felt loved, but hearing the words was different. It was _amazing._

"Mary said that she had fun watching us tearing each other apart." Sherlock said.

"She is wrong. We are still here, and I will do everything, everything I can to make it up to you." John said.

"Of course she is wrong. She was handcuffed, she had lost everything, she was only trying to hurt me – _us_ with her words." Sherlock said, getting up from his chair.

"So…?" John asked after a moment of silence.

"You need to sleep, and I am sure Mycroft will be here and delight us with boring trivia."

He helped John up the chair and rested his hands on his shoulders. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, he allowed himself the luxury to feel John, smell him, to feel his own flesh, two weeks (months, years) of tension flowing out of his body.

"Where are you taking me?" John said.

"You need to sleep, I have a bedroom, use your powers of deduction." Sherlock said.

John chuckled, "Are things good, Sherlock?" He asked, letting him guide to the bedroom and Sherlock felt almost dizzy with anticipation, with how much he loved that man. John was exhausted, all the tension and the residual adrenaline had left his body, and Sherlock guided him easily to bed.

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking at him quizzically as Sherlock took off John's shoes and socks.

"What?" Sherlock said.

"Are things good?" John asked.

"They will be." Sherlock said.

"Aren't you coming in bed with me?" John asked sleepily, and Sherlock smiled when he saw John hugging his pillow, inhaling his scent.

"Later. But – I have something to do, first." Sherlock said.

John shook his head, his face hidden in the pillow. He didn't ask him to turn off the lights or close the binds, though.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn't need to tell him that he wanted to watch him sleep in his bed. Their bed. Things were still not good. But they would be.

Obviously.


End file.
